by Mj Roë
“Was he homeless?”
“You might say that. He lived very meagerly.”
“You are kind to have given him a home, C-C.”
“I’m not kind. I’m very selfish. You know that. He is helpful to me in return.” C-C came up behind her. He was fresh out of the shower, naked, smelling faintly of almond soap. Pulling her against him, he untied the tie of the robe and wrapped her in his arms. “What do you want to do today? We have a few hours until it’s time for the wedding.”
“If you are implying that we should spend the day in bed, that’s out.” She rumpled his still-damp hair. “How about a drive? You keep mentioning how picturesque the neighboring villages are. I’d like to take some photos.”
“Good idea.” He grinned. “Second best, but good. We can have lunch somewhere other than the Ajaccio for a change.”
“But we have to be back in plenty of time to get dressed for the wedding.”
“And for a little siesta. Remember?” The twinkle in his eyes gave away his thoughts.
“Oh, you. I’ll wager that the wedding couple isn’t doing it as often as we are.”
“They don’t have ten years to make up for.”
Anna laughed. “Maybe they do. How did they get together, anyway?”
“It’s a fairy tale, really. Once upon a time…during the great war, Diamanté and this guy Narbon were both in love with Elise. They fought viciously over her and hated each other for years afterward. What I don’t know is how Ferdinand, Diamanté’s older brother, won out, but he did. Elise married him, and then a short while later she became a widow. Why Diamanté waited so long after his own wife’s death to seek Elise out is also a mystery. He must have never stopped loving her. But now, all is well. They live happily ever after.”
“Did he ever make up with the Narbon guy?”
“Not that I am aware of.” C-C shrugged, making a mental note to check with Geoffrey on the Interpol search.
CHAPTER 60
In the tradition of all weddings in small French villages, the civil ceremony was conducted in the mayor’s tiny office in the Castagniers town hall. Anna, C-C, Guy, Léo, Père Truette, Jacques, and Lucie crowded into a tight semi-circle behind Elise and Diamanté as the short, fleshy mayor, dressed in a black suit that didn’t fit him very well, read from the time-honored script. When he finished, he cleared his throat and posed the question all in the room were waiting to hear. There were smiles and moist eyes among the group as Elise answered with a quiet “oui” and Diamanté, suddenly emotional, merely nodded his head. Everyone clapped their hands as the mayor pronounced, “Je vous déclare maintenant mari et épouse.”
“That was quick,” Anna remarked to Guy as she walked arm in arm with him in the small procession to the abbey. “The ceremony must have lasted less than ten minutes.”
“It’s merely a formality.” He shrugged.
Anna noticed that Guy was having some difficulty walking, and he seemed more frail than usual. “Is your leg giving you problems, Guy?” she asked.
“It’s the old injury. It’s telling me I’ve been overdoing. That is all.”
C-C caught up with them. He, like the other men in the wedding party, was dressed to match the groom in a black suit, white shirt, and white tie. He leaned into Anna and whispered by her ear, “You look beautiful, amour.”
Anna turned to him, her eyes meeting his. She thought how handsome he looked and how happy she was at this moment to be with him. “Merci, mais c’est rien, une vielle robe,” she said modestly, shrugging her shoulders. Then she kissed him tenderly, allowing her soft lips to linger against his. In reality, she had spent a small fortune on the knee-length, classic, pistachio green, silk Armani dress she was wearing with matching chiffon shawl, encrusted with multicolored beads.
Ahead of them, Elise and Diamanté were being greeted by well-wishers from the village. Elise’s dress, a light taupe with lace insets in the long sleeves, was embroidered all over in delicate white flowers, and she wore a white lace shawl over her shoulders. Her long hair, parted in the center and waved, had been pulled back into a smart chignon and adorned with a spray of fresh white rosebuds in the center back.
“Did you see, Anna? Diamanté is sporting a new beret,” Guy said as Anna studied her grandfather’s soft wool beret. She snapped a photo just as the little procession began moving again.
C-C put his arm around Anna’s waist and helped her to negotiate the cobblestones in her dressy, high-heeled sandals. When they reached the entrance to the abbey, the heavy wooden doors were wide open, and there was a small crowd already seated in the back pews.
“Who are all these people?” Anna whispered to C-C as they escorted Guy to a front seat.
“Villagers mostly. And a few tourists who came out of curiosity. The religious ceremony is not private.” He chuckled quietly. “And, of course, afterwards they know that it is customary that they will all be invited to the vin d’honneur.”
The church smelled like all French churches, Anna thought to herself, of a musty combination of incense and lit candles. There were huge bouquets of white roses and fresh lavender on either side of the altar. As the string quartet seated to the left of the altar began to play the processional, everyone stood and turned to watch Elise and Diamanté, followed by Father Truette in priestly vestments, proceed down the center aisle. Truette took his position at the altar, and Elise and Diamanté stood on the step below, facing him. The ceremony lasted only an hour, after which, as C-C had said, all were invited to the reception at the Ajaccio, where wine and hors d’oeuvres awaited them.
That evening, the restaurant closed and the back garden was set up for a joyful celebration. Anna listened as the string quartet that had played at the church, now seated in a corner of the patio, warmed up with a mixed medley of Corsican dance tunes. Additional lights and lanterns were hung on the trees and along the hedges, and two long tables, set with white linens, fine crystal glassware, china, and silver, were festooned down the center with lavender, bay, and rosemary cuttings interspersed with glowing votives and vases filled with roses from Clo’s garden. It was still light, and the candles twinkled as the setting sun began to cast evening shadows across the mountains. The vegetation smelled fresh and washed after the rain of the night before, and the aroma coming from the lamb roasting in the barbecue pit at the back of the garden made Anna’s mouth water.
She sneaked a peek into the Ajaccio’s kitchen. The private dinner, the nine-course extravaganza that Jacques had predicted, was in progress, and the kitchen was in chaos. Jacques stood in the center of the room, putting last-minute touches on the first course. While he worked, he barked instructions to Martine on how everything should be served. Over by the massive stove, Lucie gave her own last-minute directions to two commis who had been brought in to help with presentation of the courses so that she and Jacques could be part of the wedding party. No one noticed Anna as she took photos of the chaos.
The dinner began with toasts all around to the married couple. When it was his turn, Jacques hauled himself to his feet and lifted his glass dramatically.
“A toast,” he thundered. His deep bass voice commanded silence. “To the duck!” Much to everyone’s delight, and Léo’s chagrin, he explained, “Since tonight we dine on Rouen duck, I am going to tell my infamous duck story.”
“The pressed duck is one of the glories of French cuisine, a classic,” Jacques began, and then he paused to make certain that he had everyone’s attention before he continued. “The recipe commences with the instruction to ‘strangle a duck.’ Now, mind you, this is no ordinary duck! This recipe requires a special breed of duck, a large and elegant Rouen duck…” Jacques’ eyes widened, “a duck of fine French descent that has been killed, if possible, in the region of the Seine Valley in Normandy. The important thing is that the duck must be dressed in the proper fashion—that is, it is never decapitated, never,” he wagged his finger at them. “It is strangled, so as to retain all of its blood! That’s what giv
es the meat a dark red cast and a special flavor.”
Eyes rolled, a loud clucking sound was heard from Léo’s direction, and Elise shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“In my restaurant in Rouen,” Jacques went on, gesturing grandly in Lucie’s direction, “we have a magnificent duck press the likes of which you have never before seen!” Lucie’s large head wagged up and down in confirmation.
Jacques went on for several more minutes. By the time he was done, he had described in excruciating detail the expensive, half-meter-tall, brass-plated gadget known as the “duck press,” the crushing of the bones in order to extract all the blood from the carcass, and the resulting juices that ultimately become the thick sauce, which he proclaimed with authority, “must be beaten without interruption for twenty minutes or so.” Finally, he described the resulting sauce, “the color of melted chocolate,” which is poured over the thinly-sliced duck breast and served.
“Each duck prepared in this manner is registered, and the diner is given a gilded placard stating the duck’s personal registration number,” he said with pride. Then he raised his glass with a flourish and said, “Et voilà!”
At that point, there were great roars of appreciation and laughter. Léo rose to his feet, pushed his glass in the air, and bellowed, “To all the blood-soaked, strangled Rouen ducks that have met their demise by torture for the ultimate satisfaction of Jacques’ diners.” Glasses clinked, and the group became once again noisy and animated.
Anna looked at C-C. “I’d rather not have known all that. I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, secretly hoping that the first course would be seafood.
She was in luck. The first course consisted of crab meat decorated with tiny periwinkles, which prompted another toast as Diamanté noted that the periwinkles matched the color of his bride’s eyes.
Then came fresh prawns with girolle mushrooms and tarragon mousse, tiny escargots in parsley cream, and stuffed scallops, provençal-style, all followed by the notorious duck, le caneton à la rouennaise, which Anna decided to pass on.
When they all thought they would burst with any more food, Elise rose, signaled to the string quartet that it was time to begin the dancing, and offered her hands to Diamanté. The quartet launched into a lively, traditional Corsican dance.
“Ah, it’s a Scultiscia!” C-C whispered in Anna’s ear as Elise pulled Diamanté onto the piazza. Everyone rose from their seats and began clapping in unison to the music.
Anna’s eyes lit up. “They’re dancing a Schottische!” she said as she held out her hands to C-C. Out onto the piazza, the two went to join the dance.
When the Scultiscia ended and all had returned to their seats, a refreshing sorbet was served, followed by the pièce de résistance, the truffle-dusted, spit-roasted lamb with rosemary potatoes. A salad of red mullet sautéed with baby artichokes and rosy garlic, and a lavish selection of cheeses were next placed in front of the guests, prompting Léo to raise his glass in toast to “the dueling chefs,” as he called them. “We have all benefited from their talents these past few hours.”
The group danced between courses to a variety of traditional Corsican waltzes, mazurkas, and polkas until well after midnight when the croquembouche, a pyramid of crème-filled pastry puffs drizzled with a caramel glaze, was finally served with small glasses of an after-dinner digestif.
“What is this?” Anna asked as she tasted the sweet, thyme-flavored liqueur.
“Farigoulette, from Provence,” C-C explained. “Do you like it?”
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Umm…non.”
“Aren’t you going on un voyage de noces?” Anna asked Diamanté and Elise as she hugged and congratulated them before saying goodnight. “A honeymoon trip?”
“In September, oui,” Diamanté responded. “We are going to Corsica.”
Elise gently placed her hand on her husband’s arm and looked into his face. Then, turning to Anna and C-C, she said, “Come to the Ajaccio for lunch tomorrow, my dears. There will be plenty of leftovers.”
Anna thought to herself how truly happy the couple looked.
On the way back to C-C’s house, Anna asked, “Who was that man off in the shadows?”
“What man?”
“He was standing back behind the barbeque pit, not participating in any of the festivities.”
“What did he look like?”
“An older man, with thick, square, dark-rimmed glasses. He was creepy.”
C-C lowered his forehead, and his eyes narrowed.
“What is it, C-C?”
“It’s nothing. He was probably just a curious old villager.”
But Anna had seen the look on his face.
When they reached C-C’s front door, C-C closed and double-bolted the door behind them. Anna did not recall him doing that the previous night.
CHAPTER 61
The morning after the wedding, Anna brought up her e-mail on the PC in C-C’s outer office, finding numerous messages from her publisher. Groaning at the thought of the myriad of mandatory interviews, cocktail parties, and luncheons that would be waiting for her upon her return, she decided to look at them later. One was from Harry, her agent, and then another from Mark, sent Saturday. She opened Harry’s e-mail first. The book proposal had been accepted. The check was literally in the mail, it said.
She slowly pecked away at her response on the unfamiliar French keyboard. “G-R-E-A-T N-E-W-S comma H-A-R-R-Y exclamation point. I W-I-L-L C-A-L-L-Y-O-U W-H-E-N I G-E-T B-A-C-K period A period.”
“Hmmm…” she stared at Mark’s e-mail. It wasn’t marked urgent. The subject was “Misc.” He was taking care of the dog and helping her with the sale of her grandparents’ house. Maybe she had better open it. Click. It came up. As always, the same greeting: “Hi, gorgeous.” She scrolled down through it. Some news, mostly that the dog was fine. The real estate agent had a pretty serious buyer for her grandparents’ house in Laguna Beach. The offer was expected by the time she got back. Then he dropped the bombshell. His parents, he wrote, were at the apartment in Paris. They were going to be there for a couple of weeks. He was thinking about flying over to see them. Could she meet him in Paris at the end of her trip? He wanted them to have a second chance. Maybe Paris would do it. He ended with:
How is the reunion going with the old guy anyway? I hope, for your sake, well. Take care of yourself, Anna. Hope to see you soon in the “city of lights.” Love always, M.
Anna sat back in the chair and sighed. She hadn’t told him much about the trip except that she was returning to France for a vacation and that she was planning to attend Diamanté’s wedding in southern France, after which she would be visiting Monique in Grasse.
Wonder what he would think if he knew that C-C is here, she thought, frowning, as she replied slowly, painstakingly, that she didn’t have her PC with her and that she was checking e-mail via the Internet. She told him that she wasn’t stopping in Paris on her way home, so sorry about not being able to meet up, and that the reunion with her grandfather was going… She stopped typing and looked out the window. C-C and Clo, followed by the dog Max, were just coming through the front gate. “Let’s just say, better than expected,” she said aloud, clicked on “Send,” and quickly closed the e-mail window.
The front door opened. Anna got up from the desk and went into the hall. C-C’s face was grave.
“We have a plumbing problem,” he told her. Clo brushed past her with a quick nod and a “Salut,” his black, Cambodian eyes focused on getting to the back of the house as quickly as possible despite his artificial limb.
“What’s the matter?” she asked C-C.
“A pipe has burst. It’s an old house. It has happened before.” He followed the caretaker.
Anna shrugged and went back to the PC. Another message popped up. He must be working late, she thought as she looked at her watch. She swallowed hard and opened it:
Hi, Good to hear that it’s going “better than expected.” I assume Guy is ther
e for the wedding? Say bonjour to him for me. I don’t understand why you can’t stop off in Paris. Maybe you could call me, if you get a chance, and we could discuss it? Unless of course, you’re planning to be with him?
With whom? What are you implying, Mark? she thought, knowing full well what he was implying. She responded with a single question mark in the subject line.
Two minutes later, there was another e-mail from him:
Ah, got your attention. You are still online then. Good. I was joking, of course. A dumb ref to your former French lover.
“This is ridiculous,” she said aloud. “Okay, absolutely the last response.” She typed, “You’re working too late. Go to sleep.”
Anna knew that Mark frequently had insomnia and would stay up until way after midnight working at his computer, so she expected that she’d get another response. Five minutes passed. She read and responded as enthusiastically as she could to some of the publisher’s e-mails.
Then, more out of curiosity than anything, she minimized the e-mail window and looked at the icons on the main screen. A French software package for managing a small medical clinic had been installed. She clicked on the icon. A screen came up demanding a password. She tried the one C-C had given her for Internet access. It wouldn’t let her in. Well, at least C-C was security conscious. Being PC literate, Anna checked the size of the database. There couldn’t have been many entries. She scanned for the last time an update had been made to the scheduler. Two weeks ago? He hadn’t scheduled a patient in two weeks? That’s strange, she thought. Everyday since she had arrived, though, he had announced that he had to make a house call to visit a patient.
Another e-mail arrived. Mark again:
Okay, so if you are still online, Anna, I’m sorry. I promise to not mention you-know-who ever again. It’s just that I’m missing you so much. I love you, and I want us to get back together. I won’t mention the “M” word either. I’m groveling now. Won’t you please just meet me in Paris? Or at least call me to discuss it? I do love you. You do know how much I need you, don’t you? I’m yours, always and forever, M.